


In the Corner of His Eye

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Jason Todd is a Talon, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Stalking, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: For weeks, Tim's been seeing a shadow in the corner of his eye. Just barely there, and he struggles to catch it for more than a moment, or identify it. Then, things start showing up in his apartment; small gifts, with no clue as to who's left them. Tim's determined though; he's going to find out who it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So I only did a few days for the Valentine's JayTim week (most of the prompts didn't grab me), and this is the first! I've actually been wanting to write this for awhile, and this finally gave me an excuse to (which was great). So the prompts for this day were 'Enemies to Friends to Lovers' and 'Secret Admirer', and this falls more in line with the second. Also there's like... no shippy ending to this, so apologies. Enjoy!

It starts with a shadow in the corner of Tim’s vision, a little edge of black that doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the night. It takes a week before he can turn quickly enough to catch that shadow moving, darting out of sight in a flash of sharp movement that he instinctually wants to chase, except that he’s in the middle of infiltrating a drug bust and he can’t just run off to chase shadows in the middle of it.

Then he doesn’t see the shadow for weeks, which only serves to make him extra paranoid about it. He catches it, _once_ , three weeks and two days later, and then it vanishes again. Which makes him believe that it’s still there, it’s just good enough that he’s not catching it, which makes him twitchy and prone to doing random night-and-heat vision sweeps of his surroundings; none of them catch anything either.

Then he comes back to his apartment, approximately two months and six days past his first observation of the shadow, and there’s a plain, fairly small cardboard box sitting on his table.

After panicking, and about seventeen sweeps of every possible type he can do with just the tech in his suit (no active electronic components, explosive chemicals, or any residual heat, to start with), he bites the bullet and carefully flips the lid off with one end of his staff.

Nothing explodes, sprays poison gas, or starts ticking, which is a good first sign. He edges closer, peering into the box itself, and stalls out. The small chip inside is still encased in a clear plastic container, the ‘ _Star Labs_ ’ printed across the front of it a proud declaration of point of origin, and he happens to know exactly what the piece of technology is. He’s only seen it in the occasional lab report that they ‘borrow’ from Star Labs, to keep track of what they’re working on, but…

He picks up the tech in one hand, leans his staff against his shoulder, and clicks his coms on. “Hey Oracle, you there?”

It takes a couple seconds before he gets an answer, in the form of a slightly distracted, _“Here, Red. What’s up?”_

“Have you been in my apartment today?” he asks, sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder as he sets the chip back down and then picks his staff back up in both hands and then starts to slowly, carefully, check the rest of his apartment.

All the lights are off, and he can’t hear anything, but there’s also a… gift? A gift sitting on his table and none of his alarms or security measures picked up a damn thing. Someone still being in here is far from outside the realm of possibility, apparently.

Barbara pauses, then answers, _“No, why?”_

Well, that nixes the one other option.

“Remember that brief conversation we had about a week ago?” he prompts, carefully clearing the attached kitchen. “About that prototype chip in development at Star Labs? The one I wanted to take a look at?”

_“What about it?”_ He can hear the tap of keys in the background, and he’s about ninety percent sure that she’s in the middle of hacking into his security systems (as if he doesn’t have a backdoor for her) to check his apartment.

“It’s sitting on my table,” he tells her, pushing the door to the bathroom open with the end of his staff, and only then venturing into it to check the corners. “If it wasn’t you, then someone is _stalking_ me, O. Stalking. _Me_. I only talked about that thing to you, _one_ time, and it’s sitting here in my apartment.”

_“Could it have been Kon? He could have overheard; you know he eavesdrops.”_

“Yeah, except that none of my security was tripped.” Final stop; bedroom. “ _None_ of it, O. Kon’s a nosy dick sometimes, and he’s got some of my codes, but he couldn’t have gotten in here without tripping something. Also he’d stick around to brag. Plus the theft would be all over the news; he’s not exactly _subtle_.”

_“Fair. I’m showing a blackout in your security logs, about two hours ago. Span of about three minutes. Everything’s working now; no changes. No one but you in there either, as far as I can tell.”_

“Yeah,” he confirms, crossing the room to tug his curtains closed. He was pretty sure he had them closed to begin with, but he’s not _sure_. “I checked the rooms; no one’s here.” Grudgingly, he leaves the bedroom and heads back out to the living room, and his apparent gift. “O, could you maybe… set up an alert for any more blackouts? I’d like a little warning if this happens again, and if whoever this is is disabling _my_ security than it’s not going to work as well on my end.”

_“Sure,”_ is the easy answer. _“Do you want me to tell B, or anyone else in the family?”_

"Not yet. Give me a bit of time to see if I can catch him." He collapses his staff, tucking it into its sheath at the back of his belt and heading back to the still open box. "Thanks, O. Let me know if that alert goes off, will you?"

_"You got it. Be careful, Red. Alright?"_

He picks up the chip, staring at it through the plastic of its case. "Sure."

* * *

Four days later, when he stumbles out into his living room at somewhere around noon (still barely awake), there's a neat arrangement of weaponry on his dining table. _His_ weaponry.

He stares, trying _desperately_ to remember if he'd been in the middle of restocking his suit when he'd needed to finally collapse, and finally deciding that no, he definitely wasn't. His suit's neatly hidden away, his alarms — one slightly frantic check later — are all still running, and not a single thing has been touched apart from the sudden influx of his own weapons. A closer inspection reveals a few scuffs mark on the metal of the throwing discs, a bit of blood on one, and it takes him embarrassingly long time to realize that what's laid out on the table is _exactly_ the amount of gear that he used the night before.

Big firefight and a few major-villain chases after a breakout at Arkham; he'd been exhausted by the end and nearly out of a good bit of his most basic supplies. He'd… complained about it to Dick, over the coms, while they finished things up and Bruce coordinated the return of the escapees.

Okay, that's… a little creepy. Oddly helpful, but creepy.

He's just aware enough to go make himself coffee before he touches anything and ruins the chances for prints or any DNA evidence that might have been left behind. However, it does take him until the end of his first cup and the pouring of a second — when he's realizing that he really needs a shower and then to get back to work — to realize that he doesn't have any frantic calls from Barbara. No alerts.

He debates calling, but settles for a text to confirm that no alerts have been triggered. It isn't until _after_ he's sent it that it fully hits him that there was someone in his house during the night, someone who managed to disable all his security _without_ alerting Barbara's backups, cart all of this in here and lay it out, and then get back out just as quietly. All without waking him up. That's… Even beyond the technical expertise that would be needed to get through his systems without tripping them, that kind of stealth is both worrying and very dangerous.

And yet, all the person did was leave him another gift. That's odd. Very odd.

It also means that this person, whoever they are, knows who he is. Also worrying. Also dangerous. And unfortunately, only one person he can think of has the motivation and the skill to pull something like this off, and damnit he did _not need_ to have to deal with Ra's quite this early in the morning.

He grumbles, dragging his phone out again as he leans against the wall and takes a longer drag of almost-too-hot coffee. He gets as far as opening up his contacts before it occurs to him that yes, stealing a prototype chip to show off and impress him is Ra's' style, but collecting his _used_ weapons from across Gotham and leaving them for him to find? Definitely not. If anything, they’d be new. Plus, Ra’s would be way more likely to give him an arsenal full of distinctly more League-like weapons. Ra’s prefers that he know exactly where the gifts come from.

So, not Ra’s. Which is simultaneously a relief — he hates dealing with Ra’s with an unfortunately misunderstood passion — and a further worry. That means that this is an unknown, highly skilled person sneaking into his house.

Barbara gets back to him, confirming that her systems haven’t gone off and then asking why. He debates it for a few minutes, as he finishes his second cup of coffee, and then replies and dismisses his question as curiosity.

He _is_ curious. He wants to know who this person is, and… well… It doesn’t _seem_ like whoever this is means any harm. At least not so far.

He can handle catching one stalker by himself.

* * *

Over the course of the next month, he gets some little ‘gift’ almost every other day, averaging out.

Some of them, like ten bags of his usual brand of ground coffee beans, or random bits of interesting tech, make sense in a very stalker-like way. It also makes him pick through both the code of all his security and every corner of his apartment, inch by inch, to make sure that there are no bugs secreted away that might give this person a feed of his life. He doesn’t _find_ anything, which makes him think that this person is in his apartment a lot more often than he knows.

Others, like a small piece of what he’s almost sure is a piece of driftwood from Gotham Harbor with two _bullets_ embedded in it left on his pillow, don’t make any sense to him at all. It _is_ kind of interesting, in a way, and it’s by far not the only gift like that. Random bits of rock, or well-preserved feathers, or particularly bright flowers very carefully left in water in some of the clear glasses he owns but hardly ever uses. It’s like his stalker is highly trained, dangerously skilled, and also happens to have the social skills of a six year old giving ‘cool looking rocks’ to a crush.

He checks the entire apartment for fingerprints a dozen times, or any hairs that aren’t his, and finds literally every other member of his family but none from his ‘guest.’ Not even when he extends his sweep to the entire outside of his apartment. He sets increasingly more complex traps, installs cameras scattered around an entire _block_ , and still ends up with _nothing_.

Nothing’s destroyed, nothing’s ever _disturbed_ , it just doesn’t stop whoever this is from getting in and it doesn’t catch them on any kind of surveillance.

He starts seriously considering that his stalker might be a literal ghost. Unfortunately, in their world, that’s not as unlikely as it seems. A stalker-ghost with enough power to bring the gifts they have, and to move everything around like this, _is_ unlikely though, which makes him discard that idea. At least for now.

So, finally, he resorts to the absolute lowest-tech option he can think of. Pretending to sleep.

After all, his high-tech options aren't working. Why not try something low-tech? Something as simple as, 'sit and wait'? After all, if his stalker really is getting into his house sometimes while he's sleeping, and leaving gifts, either the person is utterly silent or he's just a little bit too passed out to notice. He just has to stay awake for one night (maybe two, _hopefully_ not three) and see if anyone shows up. The gifts show up on, generally, either his table or his pillow. Fifty-fifty chance in terms of his stakeout, and if this doesn't work then he can crash on the couch and catch his stalker the next time.

He's fairly convinced at this point that this mysterious person doesn't want to hurt him, but he'd still like to know exactly who it is that's sneaking into his apartment most nights. Good information to have.

He triple-checks his alarms before he gets ready to sleep, making sure that the sleep clothes he goes to bed in are more like exercise clothes, and that he's got both his mask and his belt in hand. Wiggling into his shoes underneath the covers is an interesting experience, but he thinks he manages it without it being too obvious what he's doing. (He's still not sure _how_ he's being stalked; he's examined his systems a dozen times and his curtains are firmly closed. There shouldn't be a way to spy on him.)

Now prepared, he settles in to wait.

It's… boring. But he's done enough stake outs that the quiet, slow, even pace of his breathing is easy enough to fake, and he's invested enough not to just fall asleep. (He got an excess of sleep last night, so he's moderately better at resisting sleep.) It's almost like meditation, except for how he has all his senses strained tight for any sign of invasion.

He forces himself not to sneak peeks at the clock as time wears on; watching it is only going to make it feel like it's passing slower. Instead he counts his breaths, carefully making sure that he moves around the same amount that he would if he were actually asleep, which means occasionally rolling over to face the other direction.

He's not sure how long it takes, but eventually he catches something.

It's almost nothing, just a faint rustle of cloth that he could easily have attributed to his own movement, _if_ he was moving. It's close, and he catches the slight shift of light on the inside of his eyelids; the curtains being momentarily opened. He very carefully stays steady, focusing his hearing as much as he possibly can, until he can hear the whisper-soft pad of footsteps against his carpet, confident and practiced, not slow like someone who's trying not to wake someone nearby but secure in the fact that Tim should be sleeping.

As those footsteps circle his bed he slits his eyes open, just enough that he can look up and catch the edge of movement. It takes a moment for his vision to focus enough for him to catch the shape of the person crossing his room; tall, obscuring hood but the pale glint of skin at his — unless it's a _very_ large, very oddly shaped woman — face says that he's not wearing a mask. At least not a full one. He doesn't see any weapons either, which means he can go right ahead to the next part of this plan.

He moves in a rush, _flinging_ back the covers of the bed and smacking the control for the light with his hand as he leaps out of it. "Got you!"

The man yelps in pain, flinching back and _smacking_ into his dresser as one arm jerks up to cover his face. Tim gets just enough time to take in the odd mix of the man's clothes (a black hoodie, good quality black gloves, looser black pants, and smooth black shoes that look almost like they belong to a _suit)_ before the man is moving, running towards his window with a fluid grace, even as one leg clips the corner of his bed and makes him stagger.

He chases, vaulting his bed instead of circling it. His feet touch ground at the same time as his stalker crashes into the window and _through_ it, dragging a curtain partway with him. The shattering of glass is a familiar but still massively unpleasant sound, and his alarms going off a millisecond later is shrill and loud. He takes exactly enough time to punch the code in on the panel beside the window, killing the alarm, before he leaps out the window himself. There's a bar halfway down, extending from the wall, that he installed specifically to make this fall possible, and he catches it with the hand not holding his belt so that he drops to the ground with jarring, but not bone-breaking, force.

The alley is narrow, dim but partially illuminated by the streetlights spilling in from either end, and his stalker is on hands and knees on the far side of it. One leg is partially stretched out, and as he crosses the alley the man recoils back against the far wall, that foot pushing to get beneath him and then slipping right back out. Injured; his stalker took the fall without the benefit of slowing down in the middle. The hood's fallen back, but one arm is raised and covering his head, and identity. He can see medium length, raggedly cut black hair though, and that the man is lean and skinnier than is healthy, along with being in need of a good shower.

"Who are you?" he demands, keeping out of range of any of those long limbs, hands ready to draw weapons or tools from his belt as needed. "Why are you stalking me?"

He catches the flash of teeth from underneath the raised arm, a soundless snarl followed by, "I wasn’t— I—” The voice that comes out is rough, cracking, as if it hasn't been used in a long time. _Deep_ though, matching just how big the man is. "I wasn't going to—”

"Who _are_ you?" he repeats, stronger, and takes a sharp step forward.

The man's arm slashes out, fingers curled but nowhere _near_ touching him. "Stay away!"

He draws to a sharp halt at the sight of the unnaturally pale skin, and the bright, golden-yellow eyes staring up his direction. But not… at him. The pupils are _tiny_ , shrunk down to almost nothing, and he realizes with a lurch that when he flicked the light on it was a lot more effective than he meant it to be. He meant it to stun, to disorient, but not to _blind_. Those eyes are so much more sensitive to light than regular human ones; an advantage, but also a weakness.

"You're a Talon," he says aloud, and the man flinches, eyes flicking about but clearly not capable of actually seeing him beyond maybe a vague shadow. “Did I…? You can’t see, can you?”

The Talon’s mouth curls into a small snarl, but every bit of his body language is defensive, not aggressive. No answer comes; the way his gaze won’t settle is answer enough though. One blinded, injured Talon. Not remotely what he was expecting.

He studies the downed Talon for a moment, wondering at the lack of weapons and the normal clothes instead of that full-body suit. "We ended the Court,” he points out, watching the Talon shift slightly backwards at his words. “What are you doing here? Why are you following me?"

The Talon is breathing sharp, fast, back pressed to the alley wall. "I’ll leave," comes the hoarse answer, along with a ducked head and tense shoulders, that single arm still raised in defense. "I knew it was wrong; knew it was bad. I don't— I'll go. Just… Just let me go." There’s a sharp flash of teeth, still soundless, and then a slightly stronger, “I won’t let you kill me.”

He stares, confused for several long moments before he decides to just ask, "Kill you? Why would you think I'd do that?"

Those golden eyes blink, focus a bit more on him but only barely. Talon looks equally confused. "You— You killed the other Talons. All of them. Defeated the masters; scattered the Court." A hard shudder. "I'll be good," the man promises, voice cracking in the middle of the words. "I won't cause trouble; I can… I can leave Gotham."

"The other Talons were reanimated," he points out, "already dead. We did what we had to to keep them down."

Talon's addition of, " _Froze_ them," is snarled, but there’s a sort of desperate, angry _fear_ to the words. "I'm not— I'm not working for the Court anymore. I didn't mean you any harm, I just— I just wanted—" Talon’s eyes still aren’t quite aimed at him, but his legs shift, the injured one pressing down and trying to lift his weight. It collapses again, and he can _hear_ the grind of bone, though the most reaction Talon gives is a sharp huff of breath. That mouth curls to flash teeth again, covering the weakness with narrowed eyes and a hiss. “Let me go and you’ll never see me again,” is the promise, and it’s not his imagination that it’s said with almost a pleading edge. “I’m sorry I— Don’t freeze me. _Don’t_.”

It's not totally unfamiliar, but having someone half-again his height and weight pressed against the wall, all but _begging_ , is still a very strange experience. And it's cluing him into the fact that this man, this Talon, is _terrified_ of him. He's expecting terrible, horrible repercussions for the spying and the gifts he's left, now that he's been caught. He's honestly expecting _death_. Or maybe, it's just that they deactivated or re-froze all of the other Talons. He supposes, in some ways, that does count as killing. Especially if they had actual voices and minds, like this one apparently does. It was Bruce’s judgment call, and they _were_ trying to murder all the important figures of Gotham city with single minded determination, so it isn’t like they had reason to suspect that there were logical, normal people hidden inside the resurrected zombies.

But this Talon hasn't done anything to him to deserve something like death. Not even remotely. Some paranoia and a few gifts he’s sure were stolen isn’t even really worth the blindness and probably broken leg, let alone being killed.

He carefully steps forward and crouches down, keeping his movements slow and, hopefully, letting the Talon track him through the blur of vision he might have back at this point. Given how he shrinks back, defensive arm curling in against him, the Talon clearly knows he’s there, even if he can’t actually see him. He reaches forward, and the vision is apparently still gone because Talon startles, _badly_ , when he wraps gentle fingers around the gloved wrist. There’s a sharp hiss, a jerk, but he holds on.

“Easy,” he tries to reassure, “I’m not going to kill you, alright?”

Talon is coiled, tense, mouth curled into a small snarl, but he gives a small nod. That golden-yellow gaze is locked somewhere around his chest, breath coming in sharp bursts as Talon goes very, very still beneath his touch. He slips his thumb down until he finds the end of the glove, then pulls it up so he can press his thumb to the pulse point at the base of his wrist. Talon’s skin is cool under his fingers, but the pulse feels almost normal. (Then again, Talon’s clearly _not_ breathing at a normal level or calm, so maybe this _is_ heightened.)

“I need you to answer some questions. Will you do that?”

Talon's stillness breaks under a sharp shudder, but then he gives another stiff nod. "Yes."

"Good," he praises, quietly.

Talon _flinches_ as if he's actually been struck, and he silently decides not to do that again. Whether it's a negative connotation or just that Talon doesn't remotely trust him, it doesn't matter; praise won't get the reaction he wants. Now, what _might_ get him that reaction…

(He wonders, briefly, about the training methods the Court uses. How much free will do they leave, and how do they get there? What turns normal boys into the Court's killing machines?)

"What's your name?" he asks, keeping his voice low.

It gets him a sharp inward breath, and Talon's gaze snaps upward. Misses his face by about two inches, but _tries_. He's _stared_ at for a moment. "I…” Hesitation, and then the wrist in his grip twitches and Talon takes in a heavier, almost steadying breath. "J-Jason. I was Jason."

Carefully, he prompts, "Was?"

"Before the Court," comes the almost whispered answer. "Before I became… Before they made me Talon." There’s a visible swallow, before Jason’s shoulders draw slightly upwards, gaze lowering despite the lack of actual sight. “He’s a different person, a _weak_ person. I’m the Court’s Talon.”

It has the cadence of something memorized and often repeated. Dehumanization; makes sense.

“Alright,” he agrees, because Jason looks like he thinks the whole name issue is a trap, and maybe he shouldn’t press that either quite yet. “Are you working for someone?”

The defensiveness flickers to confusion for a moment. “There’s no one to work for. The Court is scattered; there’s no need for a Talon. I don’t think—” Jason pauses, looking slightly upward — pupils look a little better now; he’s probably recovering some of his vision — and then away again. “I don’t think any of them know I’m alive.”

“You haven’t tried to contact any of them?”

A _hard_ shudder, and Jason recoils back against the wall. “ _Never_ ,” he says, and it almost sounds like a plea to be believed. “Going to a Court member in their normal lives would never be tolerated. I— I know better. I… I wouldn’t.”

“Okay,” he says, gently squeezing the wrist he’s holding. “Why are you following me then?”

Jason shrinks back another inch, foot once again shifting and then sliding out, unable to take weight. “I won’t do it again. I knew I shouldn’t; I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He doesn’t sharpen his voice, but Jason flinches all the same, coiling tight like he’s expecting a blow. Expecting… something bad; to be hurt. “Why were you following me?” he asks again, and when Jason hesitates, looks like he wants to pull away, Tim quietly adds, “I’m not going to freeze you. I promise. I just need to know.” He considers for a moment, then corrects himself. “Unless you try and kill me. Then I might.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Jason says suddenly, urgently. “I was never going to hurt you. You’re just— You’re interesting. Different.” Those golden eyes rise, actually catching on his face this time. “I just wanted to watch,” is the quiet addition.

Okay… That’s…

“What about the things you left?” he asks, instead of jumping to assumptions just yet. “The gifts? If you just wanted to watch, why break into my apartment?”

Jason’s gaze flickers away for a moment before returning, and now Tim’s sure that his eyes are working. There’s too much focus for them not to be. “I… heard you talking about wanting that prototype,” Jason starts, haltingly. “I didn’t think there was any other place to leave it where you’d get it.” A pause, and then Jason gives a small, tense shrug. “You kept upgrading your security and it was… fun. Like training but without the consequences.”

“Why leave me things?” he has to push, when Jason doesn’t actually answer that part of it.

For the first time, Jason’s wrist pulls slightly against his grip. Not enough to break away, but enough to convey that he’s uncomfortable, that he wants to be free. Tim doesn’t oblige; he doesn’t have the answers to his questions yet, and he can’t really _chase_ if Jason decides to run despite the injured leg. He doesn’t particularly like it, but it’s necessary. For now. He _needs_ his answers.

Jason settles after a moment, surrendering to his continued hold. “I wanted to,” is the admission. “I thought you’d like them.” A flicker of golden eyes before they widen a little bit, that rough voice cracking a little as he asks, “Did you not like them? Was that bad?”

Oh _god_ , his instincts were dead on; he has a Talon with a crush on his hands. A Talon leaving _cool looking rocks_ because he thought Tim would like them. Does the Talon have any idea that’s what he’s doing? What kind of protocol does this even call for?

There’s a clearly upset edge threatening Jason’s expression, almost like fear, and he quickly squeezes Jason’s wrist again and says “No, I… I did like them.” And it’s _honest_ too. Maybe honesty is the best course here. “Some of the random things were a little weird, but the rest was… helpful, actually. Thank you.” Jason's eyes brighten, shoulders easing, and _oh god_ there's a tiny smile there; just one fraction of a curled lip but more than enough for him to recognize it. He sighs, decides to let go of Jason's wrist, and then adds, "But here in the normal world, we call what you were doing 'stalking.' It's generally an unfriendly thing."

Jason studies him, faint smile gone, eyes narrowing a little bit as his head tilts. "No. That's not right."

He blinks, squinting a little at the blunt refusal. "No?"

Jason shakes his head, pushing up to be actually sitting against the wall, legs still off to the side. "Stalking has a kill at the end. I wasn't going to kill you; it wasn't a hunt. I was just following."

"… Right." He takes in a shallow breath, and then says, "Remember how I said, 'normal world'? Among _normal_ people, 'stalking' means, 'following someone's every move to the point of obsession.' I know that your words might be different, but that's the commonly accepted version. It's pretty rarely used to actually mean hunting these days, unless you're talking about a legitimate animal."

"Oh…” Jason is back to looking a little uncomfortable, but he's not going anywhere so that's good enough. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… scare you?"

"I wasn't scared," he reassures. "Just… a little paranoid."

Jason shifts, looking over at his own leg as it extends, pushing against the ground for just a moment. Tim catches the little flicker of pain across his expression, and the movement stops. If he remembers Talon pain thresholds correctly, Jason can probably walk on that leg as long as it hasn't been snapped right in half. Maybe even then, though it would be a very crooked limp and he wouldn't be going at any real speed. Clearly he doesn't want to though, and… Well, Jason looks significantly less well taken care of than every other Talon he remembers seeing, even with the normal, unnaturally pale skin not a factor.

Then again, where does a Talon go without a Court to return to? Are there hidden caches around the city, or is Jason entirely on his own? Has he been living in the streets? It's not cold right now, but winter is very quickly approaching and it's going to get bad out here. Talons don't have much tolerance for cold; it shuts them right down.

He gives a small sigh, waiting the fraction of a second it takes Jason's gaze to snap back to him before he offers, "Why don't you come back up to my apartment? Through the door this time." Jason's gone stiff, eyes a little wide like he's not sure if the suggestion is a trap. "Just until your leg and eyes finish healing," Tim adds, and that stiffness eases just a little bit.

"Why?" Jason asks, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and wariness.

"Because I want to," he echoes back, and when that makes Jason duck his head a bit, shying slightly backwards, he adds, "Look, you're a massive source of information. Come up, take a shower, get a real meal, and answer some questions about the Court for me. You can go as soon as you're healed. That sound good?"

Jason hesitates, studying him. "A… deal?"

"Yeah," he agrees, going along with it. If that's easier for Jason to frame, then that's what he'll go with. "Come up?"

Another few moments of hesitation, a glance towards the utility belt still held in his free hand, and then a small nod. "Alright."

He slowly gets back up out of the crouch, offering Jason his hand. "Good."

* * *

Jason is an entirely different person once clean. Black hair scraped back along his scalp to cling there while wet, curling at the ends as it starts to dry and fall into those now fully working yellow-golden eyes. He's dressed in some clothes that Tim found buried at the back of his closet; things Dick left at some point, apparently, because they look about the right size. The sweatpants are just a bit too short, but the shirt clings close to the lean frame, where it is now way more obvious that Jason is underfed and bordering on unhealthy.

He's also pretty sure that Jason used a good three quarters of all of his hot water, but he's not going to judge that. For a cold-sensitive Talon probably living in abandoned buildings or the street, a hot shower must be a sort of heaven.

His leg _is_ broken, and fairly badly, but Jason lets him examine and then properly set it with only a small cry and a bit of shivering. Shivering for which the only appropriate action he can think of is to retrieve one of his blankets and drape it around Jason's shoulders, carefully tucking it in at the corners to give him a bit more defense against whatever combination of the cold and pain that it is.

Jason gives him a look that practically screams that he doesn’t understand the kindness, even as he draws the blanket tighter around him, and Tim feels his heart squeeze tight for a few long beats.

He doesn’t have much in his fridge, but he does find a not-too-old container of Alfred’s leftovers and he’s pretty capable of just warming things up. Jason treats the food with, first, sharp interest and desire, and then eats it with a very careful detached and mechanical set of movement. It’s a little jarring, but he’s seen behavior like that before as Robin, and he carefully stops paying ‘attention’ to Jason to try and minimize the hidden fear that the food might be taken away if he shows real enjoyment of the meal.

It hits him somewhere within the first couple minutes of asking questions that Jason answers haltingly, glancing around the apartment like he expects the Court to come leaping out of the corners, that he’s not sure he’s going to be alright with just letting Jason go back out onto the streets. He’s survived so far, true, but it’s getting colder and it’s not like Jason can seek shelter among other civilians in any sort of warm building, not with his clearly unnatural features. There aren’t many options for him, even if he does leave Gotham for somewhere warmer. If he could even make it outside of Gotham.

Also, Jason’s starting to fall asleep on his couch, eyelids drooping, and it’s sort of adorable. He’s loath to make him leave.

“Hey,” he murmurs, shifting on the coffee table and watching Jason’s eyes snap back open.

“Sorry,” comes the rough apology, as Jason shakes his head a little. “Are there more questions? I can… I can stay awake.” The way his eyelids flutter shut for another moment disprove the words, and Tim fights a small smile.

“There are always more questions.” He reaches forward, making sure that Jason sees it coming before he gently touches one blanket-covered knee. “Do you want to stay?” he asks, forestalling the tension he can see coming by adding, “We’re both tired; we can pick this up in the morning. There’s another meal in it for you, and you can sleep here.” He considers for a second, and then corrects, “But I will need the couch, because my window’s broken and my room is pretty cold right now.”

Jason winces, looking just a little guilty, but then gives a slow nod. “That would be… nice. Thank you.”

He pauses for a moment, and then exhales and says, “Alright, one ground rule.” Jason tenses a bit, expression falling into something wary but anticipating. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but what you’ve been doing — the stalking, and the gifts — reads a lot like you have some sort of crush on me. And that’s _fine_ , I promise, but you need to know that it can’t be anything more than feelings, alright? You can’t act on it any further.”

Jason looks like he has about a thousand questions, but his jaw works, his gaze falls, and then he looks back up and just asks, “Why?”

He sighs, lifting a hand and running it back through his hair, tugging at the strands. “Because… Because I don’t think you’re rational enough to be making choices like that. It would feel wrong to me, and to do something like that you need both sides to be on board. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Jason agrees after a moment, gaze falling. “I understand.”

"Good," he says, and gives a small smile. Jason shifts a bit, but doesn't answer him. "Alright, let's both get some sleep, okay?"

Jason nods, and follows him off the couch.

* * *

"Tim," Dick says quietly, a week later. "You are aware that you have a Talon sitting on your coffee table, right?"

He follows Dick's gaze backwards, finds Jason's narrowed eyes focused unerringly towards Dick's head, watching from where he's crouched on the coffee table. The casual clothes only somewhat detract from the predatory air surrounding him, and the sharp focus he's watching their visitor with.

"I know," he answers, with a small shrug. "That's Jason. He's staying." Then he looks back, frowning just a little bit. "Jason, don't stand on tables, remember? Get down, or sit down."

Jason _stares_ for another second, past him, then slowly slides off the table and straightens up. Staying slightly curled, still deadly-focused. He's probably lucky that Jason doesn't have a knife to hand; he's banned them from polite interactions, but Jason only sometimes listens to that. Even when he does listen, Tim's pretty sure that he's got knives hidden somewhere anyway.

"Jason?" Dick echoes, gaze flickering briefly to him before returning to watch Jason over his shoulder. "Tim, that's a _Talon_. Where did you find a _Talon?"_

"He was stalking me," he answers, carelessly. "Jason's fine, I promise. Jason, this is Dick, my brother. He's fine too, and he's not going to hurt you. Both of you play nice; I need coffee to deal with sunshine."

He heads for the kitchen without another word, for the pot of coffee he set to brew the moment he knew Dick was going to stop by for a visit.

He hears footsteps — Dick's; Jason's are silent when he's barefoot — and then a quiet, "So, you're living here then? With Tim?"

Jason's response is a sharp, "Yes. _Nightwing_."

He can hear how Dick chokes from in the kitchen, and he sighs, pours himself a cup of coffee. Yeah, he's going to need that.


End file.
